Gyoku
by unnafraher
Summary: What happens when the possessed finds the prince first, and the possessed ends up displaced by the right person at the wrong time. The process was not yet complete, so obviously the pieces must find some solution. -AU, HaouJohan-


Author's Notes: Oh hay, I wrote an AU. The AU is not really mine, however, and is happily shared with **Heleentje**. This was something that kind of spawned from a comment a long time ago, and that has been festering in the back of my mind for a long, long time. So I finally wrote it. Anyway, it is important to know that you will be confused when reading this. This is a stylistic choice that I made and that worked. I also felt that it fit with the overall feel of the canon it has deviated from. There are clues embedded into different sections as to what has happened, too, to help with some of the confusion. But mostly, at the end the general idea should be vague at best, though I hope that it is clear on a basic level what has happened and allowed for the events that lead to the downfall. So yeah, don't feel afraid to be confused, and don't read beyond here if that kind of thing bothers you.

Disclaimer: _Nothing here is mine. All characters mentioned are the property of their respective owners. No profit will be made from this, ever._

* * *

1.

It is surely not the most remarkable thing in that castle—how could it be, when there are so many terrifying wonders?---but there is a certain room that even the stoutest of the world's fiends are loath to approach. As far as location goes, there is nothing remotely particular. It merely lies down one of the numerous craggy, twisting corridors. It is not hidden away, it is not in the highest turret, it is not set off in the farthest battlement.

It is not a peculiar room by any means, though these days it does house a nominal treasure.

The treasure is alive, barely. It shivers all day---or night, because the sun never will rise in that starlit kingdom---despite that the room is not cold, though it is never warm, either. Sounds too, can be heard at different hours. There use to be a pattern, there use to be substance and words and even supplications. Now there are only parodies of moans that tell of a mastered animal crying for the glorious wild.

The metal door to the room is never sealed, though there would be no point in sealing it. There is no longer any fiend foolish enough to pass over that threshold. There is no longer and will from the inside, either, to cross the threshold. Monster and man understand each quite well, in that regard, and can find common ground in their mutual fear of the unspoken consequences.

Once the door is opened, there is nothing that immediately catches the eyes. It is a room---a chair; a narrow bed beneath the slit-in-the-wall-window that overlooks a silver ribbon-river that winds away into the horizon; a nightstand devoid of all personal effects. On the nightstand is a single bowl of water for washing, though the concerns for hygiene have long since become irrelevant. There once was a tapestry depicting an antediluvian battle on plains under another dimension's gibbous sun; but that a while ago, before it was turned into a rope latter, before it was wrapped around the treasure's arm and burnt.

Perhaps then, the next most interesting thing in the treasure himself---and he is not really a treasure, the fiends merely call him that because of the way he was once treated. It is a cruel moniker, of course, but they are terrible entities from a terrible world with terrible standards. The treasure is quite a product to behold, a thing someone would call a person if they understood what exactly had gone on over the last few months. The thing has a name, too, though most of them have forgotten it.

And, quite frankly, the thing no longer cares what it is called.

2.

It started as a cool prod on the head, then a tingling sensation in the neck that slowly spread through the body and to the limbs through the nervous branches. Then there were words, or maybe they were not words words, but vibrations from the outside world passed over the body and washed into the dim conscious.

A dull sensation known as pain was what it was called, but it had become so familiar it really was not all that exciting. And greater than the need to move was the need to find the answers. Even if the resolve had long since faded, the motivation was something to champion. And in that dead, monotone sea of sensation and denial, anything clung to was a chance at survival, no matter how sheer the lie.

3.

He was not scared in the beginning. Fear was something that he had to be taught, along with self-preservation and obedience.

The most annoying thing for Haou was having to destroy that smoldering will. For though every blow was successfully dealt and could the damage admired, the wind that followed seemed to catch the embers and lead to a dangerous flare up.

At first he gave him the Advanced Gem Beasts, giving him orders to use only that deck when he was called on. There had been shock, initially, for a long time. Guilt had set in, and he did not doubt that he had done that to his family. But then came the wind, and the subsequent reversal. It soon became his goal to remove the taint from their souls and set them free. He was even so bold as to approach Yubel, though she refused to help him. She would have have refused, anyway, for her own sanctification, even if the prince had not been watching.

But the prince watched everything. The prince saw everything.

That was when Haou learned how to douse a backdraft with its own scorching intensity. He merely duelled the other boy. It was not hard to get him to duel, for he was a duellist, and he knows the only way to open the door is with a believing heart. After some coaxing the boy caved in---did he not realise that he was about to end the life of his once dear friend? Did he not realise his foolishness?

So he ended the duel in a draw---he, the boy, certainly had work to do for his family, and Haou was certainly not done with the boy. Even if he was a handful, he proved useful in new ways every hour. Or so it seemed, and at that very hour the Haou had a new use for the cracking and fervently pining individual.

And, also, there was nothing quite as fulfilling as breaking a gallant soul.

4.

"Don't know why he has those two dead weights. The wench and the duellist. All they ever do is sicken him."

"Hush, hush. Let the prince do as he pleases."

"I don't know about you, but I would kill to destroy that duellist. All he does is complain and thrash. It kills me, how he can even raise his voice without being killed."

"Are you suggesting the prince is showing him mercy?"

"The prince, merciful? Feh, killing him would be generous. I see what he is doing, and it amuses me---tearing the will apart slowly and scattering the pieces, until suddenly the boy realises he is totally defeated. Then comes the polishing."

"But it is annoying."

There was a grunt.

"Anything else? Or ya just going to leave it at that?"

"The prince may play his games. I merely observe, for my own amus---Do you hear that?"

There was a crash and the muffled pattering of retreating feet, then the loud staccato of scale and leather on marble as two fiends pursued. Then there was some scuffling and a breathless gasp, followed immediately by the sick sound of twist bones and flickering wills.

5.

Haou was not happy whenever the boy and his beaters were brought before him. It always so troublesome, dolling out punishment for a job he wanted to do himself. It crossed his mind, at those times, how annoying the boy was becoming. If he kept costing him lackeys and subjects something, _would_ have to be done.

And this time, there _was_ something done.

Descending from a throne carved out of stalagmites, he approached the barely conscious boy and the two offenders. The latter two knew better than to tremble, because trembling always made the prince more harsh. When they died, as all who touched the boy did, they wanted to go as painlessly as possible.

But instead of challenging them to a duel, the prince merely twitched his brow. In a flash, two heads plopped onto the floor, leaving a thick streak of ichor in their wake before they settled. The four pools of liquid black stared unassuming up at the executor. The executor, a Vorse Raider, gave a deep, bovine laugh before shattering the skulls and smearing the flesh with one powerful hoof.

Haou was not faze by this needless mess. It was only a little thing, for the Vorse Raider knew it had two minutes to clean up the gore before he too was denied the chance to be part of Super Fusion. Instead, without looking at the boy, he dug one gloved hand into his hair and dragged him to the foot of his throne. The boy lay there for a moment, still and silent as the stone around them. Haou knowing he was not dead, kicked him, hard, fast in the ribs to let him know he was to respond.

The boy coughed, for the curved steel pushed far into his side.

Then, suddenly, limpid green met with impassive gold.

"Why do you do it, Juudai? What happened to the love you had for everyone?"

There is a second in which nothing appears to happen, but that impression is a misconception, an optical illusion. In reality, Haou has deftly poised himself on top of the other, his weight effectively pining down the broken body and crushing the lungs. The boy will only have a few minutes to live, if he does not talk.

But being silent is not like him. Not yet, anyway. "Why won't you answer me, Juudai?"

"You will address me as Haou."

A wheeze. "Why? You never tell the others to---"

"They know. They do not need to be trained."

"I---"

A squeeze and a twisting knee, then a grunt and a burst of febrile, defiant syllables.

"Juudai, Juudai, Juudai!"

There is such obdurate tenacity in the breathless outburst that it genuinely incites the prince. And he would have beaten the boy had his skin not turned to slate and his bulging eyes rolled into the back of his head. Haou eases up, because he is not going to let him escape before paying him what is due. He has already cost him so many subjects, after all.

6.

Haou only binds the boy rarely. But when he does, it hurts. It hurts such a free soul, especially.

At first Johan can see nothing---blind to the dark world around him, not to the one within him. He can sense that something is off. He is tired, tired of being beaten and pushed so perilously close to the edge. He will never be pushed too far too early, but it is exhausting nonetheless. And he will not rest, not yet, because the moment he lets up is the same moment that he is defeated.

Someone comes up from behind him and stifles him. He is sitting on his knees with his hands caught behind his back, his head drawn back and his neck exposed. Then there is a release on his airway so he can breathe, though his head is still held.

"Juudai?"

His head is jerked, and his neck protests to the movement with a jolt of pain. The boy wants to tell his neck to give it up; he is in pain, too, does not need anymore, nor is he too fond of being wrenched like a doll.

He wishes that his body was not so human.

"Haou."

"Juudai."

Silence.

"What is wrong, Juudai?"

That is the last straw, then. His stomach meets with the cold floor, and the cool metal of the prince's greaves buries deep into his back. That same foot has tread over kilometres of dead, dying, burning, earth. This is the foot that treads on his body. This is the foot that can bruise his bones. This is the foot that cannot break his soul.

Haou then crouches down. Silk slithers against the ground as he moves, flips the boy over and brings his hands to rest on his throat. He waits for a moment---for a defiant breath that invariably will come---then squeezes.

There is writhing and kicking and flailing. But not for long. Air is too precious. Muscles are too strained, bruises are too painful.

When Haou finally releases his grip he does not move. Instead he prompts, trailing a hand down the scarred, battered collarbone. There is silence, so he whips his other hand up to wrench the boy's jaw up, forcing eye contact when glossy eyes open.

"Haou," the prince says flatly.

The answer is silence. A flicker of a smile. The two syllalbes are no more than a hoarse breath. "Juudai."

And that is when it begins to hurt the most.

7.

The rule was to not break his bones. What good was a servant when they could do not preform even the most basic functions for himself? Even digits were to remain intact. Bruises, however, were very different.

Haou had an unspoken intent to place enough bruises upon the boy so that he could no longer deny that what was gone was gone. By showing him tangible proof, he would have to believe.

The marks, however, were not indelible, as was their bond.

Bond---Haou did not understand that one. Like so many things, he just no longer cared.

And when he kicks too hard and shatters the boy's leg he simply does not care, either.

8.

Time, however, seems to have won out. Though it was not time doing the work, it just allowed Haou that one tiny opening that he needed.

Conflagration began to consume the forest that lied perpetually under the stars. It raged and raged and scorched the earth until a pall of dead-tree smoke was cast over the land. The wind was dead, too, so the smokescreen settled and for a week the world was in darkness.

The boy grew restless and sullen, more sullen, at least, then he had ever been before in that place. Or perhaps he had never been sullen. Certainly never lethargic, though he had definitely brooded about his and his family's fate.

He was on the narrow bed, thinking, when the lock was undone and the door swung open. It could have only meant one thing, so he prepared himself. Haou, however, was calm and collected and dead as usual.

The boy really did miss the old light, even if the memory had become dimmer and dimmer.

"You do not get it," Haou began, his voice even. He was not in his armour, so his swift movements were even faster for it. In an instant he was at the side of the bed, glancing down with incandescent golden eyes that seared through wills and the thick veil of smoke-shadow.

"You don't get it," Johan answered back from the dark.

Haou did not blink for a long, long time. Then he reached out and dragged the boy up by his chin.

The boy felt his strength give out as he was forced to look (though not see, yet) eye-to-eye with the hateful gaze. His entire body throbbed, though his leg was the worst, even more than the parched throat that burned for a drop of water.

"Simply put, you are a disgrace."

"Simply put, you can't win."

Haou pushed back hard, pining the boy's mouth shut. Then his thumb and little finger pushed into his dry mouth.

The boy would choke on his own words, if he spoke.

"You continue to struggle, even now. Six months. Seven months. Almost eight. Do you know that there is no longer any resistance? Yet Super Fusion is not complete. This puts me in a predicament."

There was silence, for an answer.

Haou resumed. "No one is left. I must travel to find corridors to other dimensions, paths to the souls still unharvested. When there are enough, the rest will not matter. They will fall as subjects into my kingdom, the product of a fusion of the twelve dimensions."

Haou looked out of the tiny window. It was a strange move, breaking the intense gaze that had weakened so many others. Outside there was darkness. When his eyes found green again---though he could not see it, he knew the precise pigment that should be there in the darkened grey---he saw the remaining sliver of lightness.

"You have been lucky. You have lasted long enough to become useful and pay what is owed. You will duel for me. You will collect souls."

The boy tilted his head. "No," he muttered, and he almost did choke.

"You will die, then. I do not care. But you will pay your due. You will watch your family killed, one by one. Do not look at me like that. You would have done it, regardless. You would have abandoned them---they who care no longer for you---to defy me. You would have done just as I have done, though you would not have come this far. You poor, poor fool."

He fell limp. There was nothing the boy could do, not then, not possibly, even if he had had the will and capacity.

"You will fight, then," Haou said simply.

There was silence, for an answer.

That was when the boy began to realise how hopeless it all was.

9.

He did collect souls, though his heart was never in it. Haou noticed this, and took it upon himself to beat him personally, even though he had been given one of the highest ranks in his army.

'Personal Bearer' was the boy's title. It had more meaning than one.

One of those meanings was that the boy would serve constantly in his personal arsenal. Another was that he could only be commanded by Haou.

When the boy's jaw finally snapped he learned to address him as Haou. On the move, there was no way to assure that a healer would be nearby. And unless one was in the next round of victims, he could die of infection, and if he died he gave up his only chance of saving his malign family.

And that hurt more everyday, to know that they just did not care, like Haou, and just did not understand bonds, like Haou.

What was worse was that he was alone. It was on that campaign that he truly realised it---even the abject fiends found camaraderie among their own. Where (or why) was he left? His best friend was the prince of darkness, and owned him. Maybe it was not said, but everyone knew it. And if unspoken, the shallow grunts in the foreign nights were loud enough.

It was on that campaign, too, when Haou finally grew tired of him. Towards the end, the boy simply listened too well.

Many thought that that one killing finally did him in. Others whispered that he had lost his soul in a duel, and was merely a corpse animated by a secret necromancy their prince had never displayed before. A few said that obviously he had fallen under a curse. Haou knew that it was no such great thing. The boy was simply human and had done what all humans do, in the end.

He simply broke.

At first it was a beautiful thing. Though were no tears, Haou truly relished the way his name sounded in that defeated, un-lilting tone. (It conjured images of conquered lands, and those conquered lands limned his power. What better could he hope for?) Muscles that had drawn tense before loosened slack. There was no resistance. There was no will.

There was only Haou, and his influence. That was the truth.

But then Haou also understood that there was a deeper level to all humans. That he had not won. The damned boy still loved him, and so no matter how hard he beat and how far he penetrated, he was not met with any will he could obliterate.

Haou then learned how hard it was to break a pliable resolve.

10.

In the end, Haou won. Super Fusion was completed, and the dimensions fused. The one who opposed him---a little runt that was astoundingly valiant and incessant---did not fall without a fight. But he won nonetheless, and he had his victory.

And now that he had it, he did not know what do. So he began his rule, and the reign of the prince of darkness began, ushering in what would become an unchallenged epoch.

No one said anything, but they knew that he would not age. Not anymore. He had become too estranged from his morality.

As for what became of the boy, when Haou returned he merely set him aside. What use was there, what fun was there, now that he had been as completely mastered as he ever would? Haou had pondered trying to break the love, but he realised that the love was the illusionary visage the boy clung to. He did not care enough to kill him, though he did not care enough to let him live.

The boy was set free, though he never could bring himself to go anywhere.

* * *

**QUIETUS**

One day the king steps over his threshold. There is nothing else to do that day, so why not? He observes the boy and the boy observes him. They are silent until he finally has something to say.

"You do not understand," Haou says simply.

There is no answer, only unutterable questions not posed.

_Why don't I understand it? Can you not tell me that, at least?_

Haou shakes his head. "You are a fool. You once were great, a true tool, but then you withheld your usefulness, and I grew bored. That is all."

Johan rolls over onto his side, his dull gaze falling to the window. There the perpetual darkness limns the state of the world. He is reminded once again what has happened, who has won the war but ultimately lost the personal battle, the latter of which is all that matters to him in the end.

And he would have smiled, had he realised that what he clung to was still his light. Or maybe he did realise it.

Haou does not care, either way. Bored, he exits and closes the door behind him.

_You are a treasure. Beautiful, but so absolutely useless._


End file.
